


X!Men: First Day

by abbichicken



Category: Devil Wears Prada (2006), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Fashion & Couture, First Meetings, Gen, M/M, Power Dynamics, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-08
Updated: 2012-12-08
Packaged: 2017-11-20 17:27:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbichicken/pseuds/abbichicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An XM:FC AU, set slightly in the world of The Devil Wears Prada.</p><p>Hopeful Charles Xavier leaves his job in London advertising to assist the eminent Emma Frost at X! - the most fashionable publication going. It's his first day, and he's so many people to meet, so many things to do. What could possibly go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	X!Men: First Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [entigral](https://archiveofourown.org/users/entigral/gifts).



He's been here before, but today the corridors seem longer, bigger, brighter, and louder. There's a ripple of a different perfume or cologne at every turn. The place seems deserted, but every so often there's a snatch of hasty conversation, or an echoing click-clack of stilettos and platforms, the wearers never quite making it into shot. The impression would be a disturbing one if it weren't for the fact that Charles Xavier is in such a wide-eyed hurry he hasn't time to take in the sheer oddness of the atmosphere here, only to be overwhelmed by it.

He's dazzled against the whitest of white light that seems to shine from every fibre of this building, squinting ferociously as he clips his way around the maze, wishing he hadn't stopped to buy coffee because it's almost certainly cold by now, and it probably isn't the done thing anyway. It's just, every time he's ever seen New York offices on TV, everyone in them seemed to be brandishing a branded coffee cup as if it were the logical extension of their fingers. It was all part of the working image he was hoping for when he made the transfer from handy advertising minion at a top London firm to enterprising new assistant to X! editor Emma Frost.

What wasn't part of that much-contemplated mental image is this disorientation, his breathlessness, the pinkness in his cheeks from rushing, and from the fact that he's shrunk in the month since he got off the plane at JFK (everyone here drinks whisky instead of beer, lunchtimes don't last three pints (or indeed one), and it transpires that sushi is surprisingly nice) and the only trousers he has that shout "I know a few things about fashion!" are now an inch too big at the waist, and he needs another notch on his belt. He is not his most put-together self right now.

This shouldn't matter, because he's early, of course, super early, actually, because Charles Xavier is always early for everything, even when he knows full well he doesn't need to be. The good impression being early makes on others is a useful one, and the first day at any job is, Charles knows only too well, traditionally the day people screw up, step in a puddle outside the office, miss the train, have to commit emergency kitten rescue or make any one of a million other ridiculously improbable errors, as if they were living out the comedy-drama dream. Charles is determined to avoid such rookie mistakes and tricks of fate, has resolved to use the excellent personal skills and fine common sense that got him recommended for this job in the first place. And yet, in spite of all this preparation, there's something about the vastness and the emptiness of the corridors that makes this infinite walk incredibly intimidating.

Just when he might surely need to stop for rounds a corner, and happens smack upon a desk. A girl, dressed in the sharpest tux jacket and shirt he's ever seen (YSL? Charles tries to locate them in the mental recollections of the Net-A-Porter catalogue he's been reading before bed every night for the last fortnight) greets him with the slightest, least endeared, of eyebrow raises.

"Charles?" she asks, and she trills the 'r' in his name utterly unnecessarily. "You're early. Typical."

Charles nods. He smiles, but it feels stupid, as if there's no way he could have smiled and not had it look either childlike or unbearably lame. Typical? Good typical? Bad typical? There's no judgement at all in her expression. He can't help but test just a little...just a _little_ at the edge of her perfectly-presented self, to see what she's thinking about him. As he places his fingertips to his temple, she pulls a face.

"Headache?" she asks, without a hint of sympathy.

"No...no. No, thank you for asking though. It's only that I'm not sure where I'm going." Charles drops his hand like he just got caught out, and nearly drops his coffee at the same time. Oh, no, this is so very ridiculous. Oh the extent to which he wishes he could walk into this room again and say whatever the thing might be that would have her welcome him happily as a new colleague, maybe something to make her smile, laugh, even, and put him at his ease...she looks so...well, she looks _exactly_ like the kind of person Charles had imagined might invite him out with colleagues later, some cool little bar somewhere, they might get him drunk, maybe play a friendly joke or two on him...induct him into the club, you know? He'd really hoped for something like that.

Instead, it appears that (he eyes the plate on the front of her desk) _Angel Salvadore - Office Manager_ is the glorious definition of the über-stylish, ultra-cool fashion magazine employee.

Right then. Charles takes a deep breath and does yet another one of those lame smiles. He's going to have to get used to keeping his head around extraordinary humans, he notes, and he tries to project just a _little_ more class about himself. Much as he'd like to go back and fix this first impression, even if it's only in Angel's own mind, he mustn't. Can't. He could...but he promised himself he wouldn't. He got this job on merit, and he'll keep it that way.

"Ms. Frost will be in at ten," Angel continues, already looking back at her screen instead of at him. "She's left a stack of papers for you to file before then, when she'll expect you to attend her first three meetings of the day and take notes. The rest of her itinerary is tbc."

To be confirmed, Charles notes, proudly.

"That stands for 'taken by computer'," Angel says, as if to contradict him.

 _She's just making that up_ , Charles thinks, and Angel gives him such a look that Charles shifts his feet awkwardly and wonders if he's screwed up already, if he's been doing some kind of accidental projecting here.

"Your desk is back the way you came. Turn left at the coffee machine. It's just in front of the editor's office. You can't miss it. It's the only desk that's a complete mess. I advise you fix that before Ms. Frost arrives."

Charles mutters a 'thank you' and gets out of there as quick as he can.

* * *

Angel wasn't joking about the filing. It's easy to find his desk, once he gets to the right room. Well, it's easy to find where he ought to be, anyway, but the desk not so much. He's met by a vast, teetering house of pages and sketches and paraphernalia, easily twice as voluminous as he is himself.

Charles wishes very, very hard for some kind of super special organisational powers, but wishing does nothing in this instance. There's no Sword in the Stone-type magical repositioning of every single shred of stuff. Equally, no beautiful minion appears to help him out with this task. No, it's just him, and the paper.

The potential misery of being the new assistant in the glossiest, most glorious magazine on Manhattan looms large over him, as he wrestles with superbly complex wonderings, to a tune of something like "does 'Fall Tweed Looks'" go in T for Tweed or F for Fall or L for Looks?"

 _Positive reframing, Charles,_ he says to himself, and determines to make the most of the chance to learn about the kind of thing this place is and does. He could be learning a lot whilst doing this - layout, seasonal changes, language, even... _come on, Charles, this is neither beyond, nor beneath you_.

So he files.

And files.

And files some more.

Finally, after an apparent infinity of time, Charles checks the clock, a pang of panic that it's approaching ten and Ms Frost might at any moment appear, and he'll be all ruffled and disorganised.

He's been filing for a whole ten minutes. This makes it precisely 7:45am. He sighs, loudly, and makes his way out to the coffee machine. At this rate, he's going to have worn his brain out completely by the time his true employer arrives, and what good is that to anyone?

Charles sits himself down in someone else's chair, what with his being stacked head-high with cuttings. As literally every single person who's ever sat in a wheely chair for the first time in a while does, he spins himself this way and that, absently.

"Having fun?" A voice cuts in, unexpectedly, on his swivelling time. Charles has yet another cliched moment of awkwardness, but at least he doesn't spill his coffee everywhere. He clears his throat and rights himself to meet the eyes of the woman who hired him in the first place. He's swathed first in relief at a familiar face, but then panged by his conscience and the fact that he was clearly already slacking off, just fifteen minutes after he was even meant to be in the office.

"Er...I...was just...developing a strategy. Moira, from HR, wasn't it? It's good to see you again!"

"A pleasure to see you too, Charles. I see they've left you plenty to do..."

Charles looks at the infinite heaps of paper, and nods, apologetically. "I'll get right on with it..."

"Don't worry yourself about it. That's what I came down here for. All you need to do is make sure nothing gets thrown out, no more than that. Emma - Ms. Frost - just wants you to make the mess disappear. I think you'll find that's a running theme with this job. One of the reasons I hired you was for your problem-solving aptitude. Everyone thinks all you need to get on in a place like this is a good shirt and the ability to drink champagne all night, but in reality, it's got a lot more to do with strategy and an ability to really...know what people want, before they know it themselves."

"Perception..." Charles chimes in.

"Exactly!" Moira says. "See? You're going to be fine. I just wanted to welcome you, run through a couple of health and safety things and see if there's anything else I can do to calm those first day nerves."

She's almost, Charles thinks, too warm towards him, but after Angel's indifference and the loneliness of filing, he decides that's hardly the worst thing in the world, and it might yet come in handy, depending on how this day pans out.

Between them, the papers are boxed in no particular order. Charles promises himself that he's still going to go back through all this one day and organise it, just because he can, and because he will do this job _properly_. Charles has always wanted to be truly appreciated. He's always wanted to be special for the right reasons. For being the best at things for more reasons than simply his uncanny...perception. Moira treats him as if he were right for the right reasons. She flatters him. He appreciates that. Right now, at least.

"After the last girl who worked here, Andrea, I wanted someone completely different. Someone who really cared about the fashion, but who wasn't so..crazed."

"Crazed?"

"There's something about this environment that brings out the desperation in a lot of people. You were by far the most calm of our applicants. That really stood out to me. I think you'll work well with Emma. She's a woman of few words, but, well. You'll see."

Charles swallows, and tries to demonstrate that calmness a little more accurately.

It's ten o'clock on the dot when the door opens, and Charles' chance to _see_ makes itself known.

Emma Frost picks her way purposefully towards him, and all the air in the room takes on a sharper quality. She's dressed in silver and white from head to toe, as if she's come to a fancy dress party as The Future or moonlight or something. Chanel jacket with silver thread picking out the details, white leather trousers from Balmain, Prada heels...the cuts are traditional, but with the cascade of blonde waves over them, with Emma's sapphire blue eyes piercing their way around the room, laserlike, they appear not only new, but of a time entirely outside this world. She is, truly, extraordinary.

"Emma!" Moira says, entirely unfazed, speaking easily as if she were greeting an old friend. "I'm thrilled to introduce your new assistant."

Emma tilts her head to one side, as if that will improve things. " _You're_ Charles Xavier?" she offers.

Her voice contains the most peculiar judgement on the 'you're', something that prickles its way down Charles' back. He doesn't mean to look her up and down, but she's so stunning, so imposing, he can't help it.

"He is indeed!" Moira says. "And if you'll excuse me, I'll leave you two to it!" To Charles, she adds, conspiratorially, "Anything you need, just let me know."

"I'd thought you might be some rich young British girl with a boy's name," Emma says. Charles can't tell at all if she's glad or disappointed that this is not the case. Ms. Frost is, as he'd expected, is like no-one he's ever met before. She's so...so...icy. It's the only word. But not in the ancient way that women are termed icy, no, not in the sense of frigidity, nor other such hideous assertations, no, rather, it's as if she's a filter up around her, as much as a shield, the kind of filter that means she doesn't - shouldn't - have to see even a single thread that offends her. As if she's so powerful that only excellence is permitted to present itself to her. She's clear-cut, precise lines against a background that had seemed so completely purposeful, organised and functional until Emma walked in and made everything else feel like chaos.

Charles feels an unusual thrill at her presence, a kind of connection, something that is...entirely new to him. Not an attraction, no, nothing so vulgar, but a...kinship. It's a daft word for an odd thing. There's certainly something very peculiar going on here.

"It's..." he says, frozen to the spot, "it's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Frost." He just manages to stop himself adding unnecessary platitudes at the end of it, Angel's cool, brisk demeanour in mind.

Emma nods. And she's overtly looking him up and down now, so much so that Charles feels he's never been so _seen_ before. So much so that Charles forgets what he's wearing, looks down at his own body to check. It's still as smart as he can be, today. As fashionable as he knows how to be, until a pay cheque comes in.

"You'll call me Emma. Formality won't endear me to you." Emma takes a deep breath. "Most importantly, you'll need to visit the closet," Emma says, and, with the slightest, nonchalant, tip of the head, she turns her back on him and makes her way towards her office. "This isn't good enough for here." To herself, she continues, "Of course, I couldn't expect Moira to have fixed that for me, could I?"

Charles watches her continue on into her office, and has to remind himself to close his mouth. He isn't even upset by her words - he understands fashion, yes, and he knows he has a lot to learn, and it doesn't so much sting him to have been evaluated in this way, indeed, it's nice to have been considered at all, it's just that there's such a neutrality to her...something completely, uniquely impenetrable. It throws him.

It throws him so much that he forgets to do anything at all except sit there, until an irritated "Xavier!" barks out of Emma's open door. Charles hurries in.

"So the first thing you'll need to do is get changed. Call Alexander from Features - he's sharp enough, and he's always at the samples. Perhaps he can make you look appropriate. But don't spend all day at it - ten minutes, maximum. After that, I'll want you to attend the high-end shoot. I won't be there, so I'll need notes on the look and likely page spread. You can double as the intern, make the coffee and so on. It'll give you a good chance to get a sense of who some of the people here really are."

Charles wants to ask what she means by this, but daren't, in case it's a fashion thing he's yet to learn. Instead, with his encounter with Angel still strong in his mind, he asks, "What about the meetings?"

"What meetings?"

"Angel..at the front door...she told me you'd need me to take notes at your meetings this morning."

"I don't care what Angel told you. I've told you what you'll be doing this morning. If you've a problem with that, I suggest you call Moira right this minute and tell her you'd rather be Angel's assistant."

At this point Charles is really desperate to fix things, but he just can't. It won't work.

"Don't play games with me, sugar," Emma says, and then she smiles, and it is neither lame nor stupid, nor is it pleasant. It's pointed, and, Charles feels certain, it shows that Emma knows exactly, exactly what she's doing here. "Now, do as I said."

Charles is trying to, except he doesn't even get out the door without incident. No, instead of gracefully exiting, and successfully achieving everything, he walks slap bang into yet another exceptionally, incredibly, _unbearably_ attractive being.

He seems so very tall, classically broad at the shoulders, narrow at the waist, dressed in a sleek black polo neck that doesn't leave a scrap of spare fabric anywhere, paired with a navy and yellow tartan kilt that becomes him utterly. This is not the kind of get-up Charles' colleagues in advertising could get away with.

"My new assistant Charles," Emma says, "Deputy Editor of X! magazine, Mr. Erik Lehnsherr." She gestures at the new arrival with a careless hand, as if Charles' eyes could be anywhere else.

Charles' heart is doing a leaping thing, a skittering, syncopated dance that's new to it and him, and clearly, entirely provoked by the presence of this Erik. He holds out a hand, because you ought to shake hands, oughtn't you? What does fashion want?

Erik takes a step forward to him, _closesoclosetoocloseohmy_ (what _is_ that?), leans _around_ him, wraps his arms about Charles' shoulders (like he wanted to put an arm around his waist but the height difference was too great?) and leans a friction-free jawline to his and kisses him, actually kisses him, warm, firm lips to Charles' pale, nervous skin, first one side, and then the other. Not air kisses. Actual kisses.

Charles goldfishes in delayed reaction, and that does not count at all as a kiss, virtually a slurp in response, oh the shame, the shame.

Erik detaches himself with the utmost grace, and casts over Charles with a casual eye that, just like everyone else here, offers nothing in way of either approval or the contrary.

"He seems clean, at least..." he offers to Emma, dryly.

"Ask him something," Emma replies, equally cool. "I haven't had the chance to try him out yet." Charles feels as if he might be trapped inside some kind of evil freezer at this point, and yet, and yet, he doesn't mind at all, not one bit, because it's such a _chic_ freezer, and he all he wants is to live and work somewhere like this, yes, somewhere where the beautiful and exquisite is the norm, somewhere where everything is both above him, and right there for the taking.

Erik nods and ducks out, returning in a whisk of a moment. Charles feels his absence though, even in that brief second. "Should I wear the black, or the black?" Erik asks, without the slightest hint of a smile, holding up two black jackets of, surely, identical colour and cut. Charles struggles, knowing that speed of wit is, in industry, every bit as important as having it in the first place. The man seems serious, but he can't be, can he, look at the jackets, look at the jackets...Erik turns them in the light, this way, that way...there, they aren't the same!

Charles smiles his broadest, and most obliging smile. His face is beginning to ache with all the smiling he's been doing of late, but "The one in your left hand has navy tones, which will bring out your eyes and complement your skin tone. The one in your right has emerald to it, which will distract."

Erik smiles a quite terrifyingly toothy smile, and Charles feels a shiver flutter its way down his spine and around his ribcage, an excitable hug from his own nervous system. He bites his lip, catches himself doing it, clears his throat and raises his eyebrows at Erik in a hopeful, _that's right, isn't it?_ sort of a way. The man nods, and Charles exhales in relief. And fights off another quiver of that _something else_.

"Not so bad, Emma," Erik says, "he might just be the one that sticks around..."

"Thank you," Emma replies, with the most formal of tones, as if it had been her, and not Moira, who'd taken a chance on this bloke who dresses like the British university professor stereotype, but smiles like an excitable, misplaced teenager. "Still, as you can see, his appearance won't do - I was just sending him to find Alexander. Have you seen him, this morning?"

Erik rolls his eyes. "I'd rather not have. I can't deal with that level of surliness at this hour. Is it really fair to send our new charge into his incapable hands so soon?"

Emma shrugs, and you can imagine the sound effect of the strings of a crystal chandelier, twirling about themselves, when she does so. "I will not have an ill-dressed assistant."

"It is a rather _gauche_ look he's gone for," Erik concedes. "I tell you what, how about I take him to the closet and see to him myself, instead?"

A most peculiar noise makes its way from Charles' mouth, somewhere between a laugh and a choke, and he covers it hastily with the back of his hand. "Sorry..." he mumbles, as he catches that all eyes are now on him (which is perhaps only fair, being as they've been talking about him for long enough) "...sneeze..." Neither offer to bless him, which he's going to take as rude until he remembers that he's in _New York_ now, so everything is different.

"If you have the time," Emma says, moving back to Erik, "then I think he'd be overly fortunate to have your hand in styling. Give him a week's worth to start with. I'll need him to carry and notetake at the Ralph Lauren on Thursday, so if you'd account for that..."

"Of course. Mr. Xavier?" Erik's voice lowers for the addressing, smooth as a butler.

"Charles...Charles..." Charles gurgles, trying to be forthcoming.

"As you will. Charles? Come with me."

Charles does not need to be asked twice.

* * *

Erik covers his mouth with his hand, because laughter would be cruel, and Charles has done nothing to deserve cruelty, but still, it's difficult not to be amused by the way that Charles looks like a kid trying on his father's things right now.

"I think you need something a little more slimline..." Erik says, and his long fingers deftly take the jacket at Charles' shoulders. Charles goes to undo the (exquisitely engraved) silver buttons, but Erik gives the garment the slightest of shakes, and the buttons seem to undo themselves with an ease that suggests that all Erik does every day is dress and undress people.  
.  
"That's..." Charles says, through a furrow of awe, "how did you do that?"

"Practice," Erik says, and Charles swears his eyes sparkle with something more. "Now, you've the perfect shape for this season, so let's make the most of it. Just a bit of a restyle. Off with that shirt."

Charles obliges, feeling very much all thumbs, and more than a little self-conscious. Not inadequate, no ( _perfect shape for this season_!), just...there's that fact, about the human body, isn't there, that the more naked you are, the more visible your blushing. Seeking to reassure himself, he scans the very edge of Erik's feelings at this moment and finds himself gloriously represented in the other man's mind, so much so that if he was blushing before, he's beetroot now.

Erik isn't scrutinising him, though. For all the attraction, he's busy flipping through stuffed rails with such ease, it's as if he barely touches things - the clothes simply part to invite him to gather up what he's after.

"Westwood?" Erik asks, a waistcoat and trouser set in hand.

"I love her," Charles says, all instinctive reaction.

"Of course you do, posh English type like yourself..."

"I was born here, you know..." Charles corrects, keen to hang on to all the standing he can. "In New York."

"That so? Could've fooled me. But you never do know with this city. One of the things I like about it. Everyone, all mixed up together. Every sort. The pretence is all in the clothing. And the accents. No harm, mind..."

"I went to university in England," Charles adds, touch of the defensive coming in.

"Study fashion?"

"Genetics."

Erik nods. "Unusual." He holds out the waistcoat., signifying that no more biography is required. "Definitely this."

Charles goes to put it on, and Erik rolls his eyes. "Without a shirt? I hope you're doing this on purpose."

To be honest, Charles is, but he's having the best imaginable time whilst he's at it.

A few minutes later, Charles is delightfully attired in the best part of $5k's worth of clothing. Jil Sander shirt (a compromise when Erik insisted that the dinosaur jumper was not only 'too this season' but just not funny in the context of high fashion) and Westwood navy pinstripe waistcoat and trousers (without a single gape, and with a decent, accurately-fitted Lanvin belt). Erik gathers clothing from the shelves in moments, folds things in an instant like his holiday job was in the most brutal of department stores, and presents Charles with the sartorial equivalent of a doggy bag ("Remember this is the best - don't spill stuff on it, only get it properly dry cleaned, and bring it back the moment you get your first pay packet.") and Charles could not be happier.

"What about my hair?" Charles asks, as a parting gambit, sort of by mistake.

"What about your hair? You think we have wigs in here, or something? Well we do, actually, but only if you want waist-length blond curls. You don't need to change a thing about yourself, Charles, not a thing. Just the clothes needed a bit of a spruce, that's all. We live in a very judgemental world, here. First impressions count."

"Then I hope I've made a good one on you..." Charles says, riding on the ideas he's pinched from Erik's mind and trying a touch of flirtation.

Erik reaches past Charles, so his whole frame momentarily brushes/leans on Charles'. His scent is, up close, rich and complex - wet steel and whisky? - and Charles shivers, indiscreetly. Erik takes something from the shelf behind him, and, as he pulls back, pauses, _soclose_.

"Very good indeed. Don't screw up. Emma's no patience. I think, if you can last out the week - or even the day - then we might just have a lot of fun here, you and I."

"I'd like that," Charles says. "I'd like that very much."

Erik is adorning himself with the Paul Smith cap he manoeuvered his way around Charles to reach. Charles can't get past how any man can wear a polo neck, a kilt and a flat cap (not to mention the knee high socks and stylishly beat-about boots) and not look like he's escaped a very try-hard Boxing Day shoot, but Erik really does look like these clothes, in this precise combination, really _meant_ to be worn this way all along.

"I've got to get on now," he says, and he's gone in a swish of finest wool before Charles has even had a chance to say 'thank you and see you later?'.

* * *

 _Stop that_ , Charles says to himself, as he makes his way back to his desk. He knows full well he's grinning like an an idiot, and if he's learnt one thing in his day so far, it's that fashion just doesn't smile for no reason. It's hard not to smile, though, when you've just been dressed so well that you want to walk up to everyone, ever, and just...ask them how they are, no tricks, no power, just...let the clothes speak for themselves.

There's a box on his just-cleared desk. A large, black box, tied up with a black bow.

Charles looks around.

No-one else is in sight. Emma's door is closed. There's neither tag nor note on the box. About now is the kind of time that X-ray vision would be helpful. There isn't the slightest sense around of who this is for, or from. What if it's an urgent delivery? What if it's for Emma? What if it's for Erik? What if it's for him? What if it's more bloody papers to file? Charles is exhausted by the possibilities. It's the little things, he decides, that are the hardest with this kind of work. Or with any kind of work, really.

He opens the box, with all the care of a surgeon.

Inside it, there's layer after layer of black tissue paper. Charles spends so long carefully, carefully pulling the paper away that for a time he thinks that this might actually be a box only containing tissue paper, and then of course he has to unfold some of the tissue paper to check it isn't actually a garment of one sort or another - couture can, after all, go in so many directions - and then there, at the bottom of it, is something so hopelessly beautiful that he literally, laughably, inhales in a soft _gasp_ , and puts the tips of his fingers to his lips.

It's snakeskin. Is it? Is it real? Charles takes a step away from the box then just in case it's an actual snake. It's unlikely, because it's SO blue, and it does seem to be quite flat like clothing, but you never know. He reaches down, and it's intensely smooth, silk-soft, textured, beneath his fingertips. He can't place the fabric at all. Taking a corner of it, he pulls it from the box, and it's so much lighter than he expects, it flicks around and skids over the table, folds of material skirting around and catching, catching at the cup of coffee he left there this morning and, oh, Charles, in veritable slow motion, the cup falls over, and the lid cricks itself off, and then liquid is pouring all the way down the length of this previously glorious creation, black and cream turning the blue into something muddy and miserable, and Charles drops it in reflex panic, letting it flop on itself, as the cup falls onto the floor, leaving its contents in the most expensive mop of all time.

Well, that happened extremely quickly and without warning.

What on earth ought he to do?

He hasn't even a moment to wonder. It's too late. Without even realising it, Charles emitted a wave of panic that pierced at Emma and had her emerge from her office only to see her new assistant in the very miserable position of murdering the key piece for not only today's shoot, but for the final runway at the headline show of next week's Fashion Week.

"You've ruined it!" Emma shouts, her voice cracking high in fury. Charles would swear her rage goes right into his very nerves, acute pain zapping its way through his body. Uncanny. And devastating, he can feel it, couldn't miss the fact that he's really topped the list of ridiculous first day cliches here. This is not the kind of thing that's easily fixed. Charles puts his hands to his head and folds in half for a moment, unable to process what's going on.

How could he have been so stupid? How?

A knock at the open door interrupts Emma, just as she's gearing up for an almighty rage. A girl, blonde, tall, slim, dressed in the perfect T by Alexander Wang model off-duty ensemble of slubby faded black T-shirt, black leggings, heavy cream scarf, black Uggs and cosy cardigan, stands there, all of her at kooky angles as if she's moving into on-duty mode as she speaks.

"Raven Darkholme," she says, toeing the line between confidence and deference perfectly. "I'm here for the fitting?"

Emma laughs, but it isn't a pleasant laugh. "Well!" she starts. "The thing you were going to be fitted into? My clever new assistant, who, might I add, is on his _first day_ with me - and almost certainly his last - has just wrecked it."

"Oh..." the model says. "How...what a pity..." She looks genuinely sad, as well one might when they'd beaten thousands of others to model something incredibly special, and then, lo, the special thing is ruined by an overdressed assistant, who's clearly wishing the floor would swallow him right up.

Emma's face is a classic horror-shape "A _pity_? That's the least of what you might say about this mess."

"Do you think I could take a closer look?" Raven asks.

Charles, who, up until this point has been trying to work out the course of action that would be least likely to get him fired, whilst dealing with the fact that he doesn't seem even slightly able to get close to Emma's mind to mute, or even dampen, the rage she's having, obliges, by picking up the murky rag.

"I think," the model says, taking a couple of steps closer, turning her head to one side, then the other, "I think I can fix this, you know. I mean, I could try. I'll be able to tell you in just a minute or two. Do you mind?"

Emma shoots her a fierce look, wrapped in just a touch of uncharacteristic hopefulness. "How? How could _you_ fix the finest seams in the business? How will you remove stains from a material that cannot even be dry cleaned? Have you dressmaking skills?"

"I've worked with this kind of...fabric before..." Raven offers, twisting her blonde hair thoughtfully between her fingers. "I think I can make it better."

"You'd better had," Emma scowls, before whisking herself out of the room. Stupid, stupid thing she did, trusting a brand new assistant with the most intricate, expensive and fragile collection, just like that. But he'd seemed so capable. There's something unlikely about him. Made an unusually good impression on Erik, for starters. No, she'll need to go and, firstly, find a replacement for the dress, then second, brainstorm this poor designer into thinking either that the coffee was part of the fashion all along, and that the molten look is really where A/W 2013 is headed, or that he made the replacement. This is not how today was supposed to go, not at all.

* * *

"Should I...get a dummy, or something?" Charles asks, and then smacks himself mentally around the face for not having said mannequin, because, if you can't get the language right, you can't get anything right, can you? It isn't as if he'd even know where to find such a thing - he's seen them around the office, but in the heat of this very difficult situation, he's, frankly, finding it quite difficult to breathe altogether, never mind remember his way around this ludicrous maze of a place. So much for that calmness Moira said he was hired for.

"No need," the girl says, and she wraps a twist of the fabric around her hand, turning it this way and that, eyeing it in the light. "A halter neck, was it?"

Charles nods, and wishes she'd put the thing down because it seems to be disintegrating in her hands. Tiny blue "There's a picture on the inside of the lid," he offers, and she picks that up too, and turns it this way, then that way, and then -

\- the girl transforms, sleek-quick, head to toe, straight into the very image of the model inside the lid of that box. Wearing the very dress that is, simultaneously, ruined in front of her.

"I..." Charles says, but he knows, he knows. He can feel her confidence and understanding and complete mastery of the situation, and he wishes that he had just a flake of that for himself. but, meanwhile, this will definitely do.

"My name is Raven, if you didn't catch that," she says, shifting back to the face she walked into the room with, yet still, impossibly, wearing the dress. "I think it's nice for you to meet me."

Charles grins like an idiot, and says, "Yes, yes, it is that."

"So now you get to take all the credit, and no-one has to lose their job!" Raven enhances, twisting and posing her way around the room.

"You seem so..." Charles starts saying, and then stops, because he realises he's no idea where he was going there, and whatever it was he might have said, there's no way that it could be flattering to someone as...as... _gifted_ as this girl.

"Changeable?" Raven offers. "Compelling? Yeah. I get that. Or rather, I don't. But I imagine I would. I'm trusting you with this, k? It's not something I let on about. Can you imagine how the designers would be after me, if I could just make their ideas so without their having to do all the work? Quite. So this is just you and me. Alright?"

Charles smiles, with all the warmth he can. "Alright." And he does his best to surround that with the gratitude and pleasantry he means, because sometimes words just aren't enough, and if anyone can absorb the colours of his power, then it might just be this girl. It's odd, Charles thinks, how much camaraderie he's already experiencing.

"We could be a good team, the two of us," Raven says to Charles, and it's a lovely thing, suddenly, the way she looks at him with a bit of hope and fondness.

"I'd like that," Charles says. "I'll help you keep your secret, no problem."

"I don't know why," Raven says, as she grabs her coffee from the sideboard and knocks it back like she was doing shots in a bar, "but I think we're going to get on well."

"Charles Xavier," Charles says, holding out his hand and receiving a warm handshake for the first time today. "At your service. Or, rather, at Emma's service."

"I hope she doesn't fire you, in that case," Raven says, giving him an uncommonly siblingesque punch on the arm that demonstrates she's also on the strong side. Charles turns his wince into a grin.

"She won't have to, now you've fixed everything," Charles offers.

"I've heard rumours she's fired people for wearing cerulean," Raven replies darkly.

"I thought cerulean was a thing..." Charles tries, feeling uncommonly nervous, but Raven waves her hand in faux irritation.

"Oh Charles, I was only kidding! So! Now I'm all dressed up, where's the shoot?"

"I...er...really, I don't know."

"What kind of assistant are you?"

"A very, very new one," Charles admits.

"Love your waistcoat, though."

"Erik picked it out for me."

"Lehnsherr?"

"Yeah?"

"He's really something. I think he's directing today. I love working with him. Things just seem to work when he's around, you know? It's strange...maybe he's got a gift, just like me." Raven does a bit of a twirl to match the end of her sentence. She really has done an incredible job with the dress. It barely covers her modesty, but somehow she, just like Erik, in his ostensibly ridiculous clothing, looks absolutely meant to be.

"Maybe..." Charles says, because it seems that, around here, everyone's got a secret.

* * *

It turns out that the shoot is in the studio, which is a) not at all surprising and b) quite embarrassing, being as the moment they step out of the office space that Charles' desk inhabits, it's Raven who points out the sign towards it. They roll in to find Erik prowling around a set, adjusting this and that and the other.

"Emma told me there was a crisis with the outfit," Erik says, his face creased in perfect anger. "What would you suggest I do about that?"

"Oh, you don't have to worry," Charles says. "I...it's all fixed. Raven...got all the worst out, and you can't see the damage at all."

"I hope not," Erik says, but then he sees Raven, and claps his hands together in delight. "Oh, perfect! Just like Emma, to bring the drama where none was necessary. Don't ever tell her I said that, or anything like it. Ah, she'll already know, but...come on, let's make this work."

The make-up artist - a young, dark-haired girl who seems to be everywhere at once, super enthusiastic and incredibly talented - sets to work as the photographer, a lanky boy named Hank, kerfuffles around an armoury of lenses and tripods. And Charles feels at home at last, able to observe and describe and take notes and, yes, make coffee, and feel like for once, he's really part of a team here, he's got something to offer (not least that people absolutely love it when you bring them coffee just how they like it, exactly when they needed it, without them once having to discuss this), and this is everything he'd hoped for from a job in fashion in NYC.

Raven morphs into someone else entirely the moment all eyes - and the camera - are on her. She is utterly, absolutely stunning at every turn. Charles watches, slightly awed. He tries to pick out the details, the things that change about her from moment to moment, but he can't. It's as if someone airbrushes her as she moves, before the photograph is even taken: the moment Erik gives her a pose, a poise, a suggestion, it's embodied in every fibre of her being. It isn't that she's flawless, so much as that she is absolute, definitive. The dress is always exactly right, her limbs are always precisely so. She catches the light with precision. And she's clearly having the time of her life.

When the photos are taken and Erik is satisfied, Raven drifts behind a screen to 'change'. She comes out with the same black box Charles found the dress in in the first place, and hands it back to him with a conspiratorial whisper of, "We'll find a way to _actually_ fix things, I promise! I'll come by tomorrow...." and Charles hugs her, appreciatively.

* * *

"Excellent job," Erik says, some hours later, placing the proofs on Emma's desk with minute care and satisfaction. "Excellent." He places a hand on Charles' shoulder, and his fingers squeeze, just a touch too tight. "I'll tell her so. You're going to fit right in, you know. As long as you trust yourself to...do what only you can. We've all got something special to bring to the table, here. How else do you think X! gets to stand out as much as it does? I don't need your skills to know your type, Charles."

Charles blushes, because it's a long time since anyone praised him like this and he's slightly forgotten how the process works. He's pretty sure this isn't the normal way, anyway. Especially when Erik's hand doesn't release itself. He looks up, into the man's eyes, which have a smile, a bit of an uncanny one, as if not best used to smiling, and testing it out for responses.

He takes a deep breath, and lets himself test, just a bit, at the edges of Erik, because he really can't trust himself at all right now, and has no idea about workplace protocol in the fashion industry where it's perfectly possible that anything at all might go, and yet simultaneously likely that he might be about to make a gross misinterpretation of the situation that will lead him right up to the loss of his job.

The edges of Erik are cold, clear, and sharp. They're also extremely vivid. The reflection Charles sees of himself in Erik's mind is precisely, absolutely and utterly everything he's ever wanted to be. _Wanted_.

"Oh," Charles says, overcome, quite by mistake.

Erik's hand detaches itself, and he frowns, an eyebrow asserting a particularly complicated angle. "Something wrong?"

Charles swallows, and shifts himself back half a pace. "No, nope. Nothing wrong. Would you, er...do you happen to know what...I'm not exactly sure what time I should...or if I'm expected to..." _Come on, Xavier, get it together_ "is there anywhere I ought to be tonight?"

" _Ought_ to be, interesting..." Erik toys with Charles, purposefully, seeing him on the edge of a blush and deciding he might as well eke that out. "...anywhere you, my new friend, ought to be tonight. Well, providing Emma can spare you - because of course, she always has first call on your time and I don't think you ought to let her know that you asked me what you should be up to before you asked her - given that she doesn't require to, at the last minute, sort cuttings, or brainstorm a piece of lace, or, worst of all, carry that lamentable _book_ around with you, I think you ought to meet me at Cafe Katja on the Lower East Side, 9pm on the dot. German place. Excellent beer. You'll like it."

Then, without waiting for a response - he doesn't need to wait, every inch of Charles is shouting _yes oh I can't believe you just asked me out you are asking me out aren't you_ \- Erik turns on a chunky heel, and slinks fashionably away.

Charles stands open-mouthed. And starts to wonder what on earth one wears for a date with Erik Lehnsherr.

He feels a pinkness spreading across his face. A warmth running its way through his veins. Tonight's going to be quite something, isn't it?

Not bad for a first day, Charles says to himself, as he makes his way to the coffee machine, as if he needed any more pep, only bumbling into unexpected glass doors once or twice on the way. _Not bad at all_.

**Author's Note:**

> Dear recipient, I hope this is close to what you were after - the characterisations are, I know, rather topsy-turvy, so I hope I haven't screwed up the OTP dynamics you enjoy. Also, I started this before I found your letter, hence neither Charles nor Erik do the modelling, so...for this, I'm sorry!
> 
> I had an incredibly good time writing this one - I love my fashion, and frankly it was quite difficult to stop writing this, because I swear, there's a lot of mileage in mutant couture. Thank you for such a fun prompt!


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